The Problem With Genius
by GingahNinjaa
Summary: Friends are a problem with young Sherlock.
1. Prologue

Little Sherlock Holmes was but a small boy of seven and a half. He was very skinny and one of the shortest boys in his year. Under a mop of dark curls were his wide, light-coloured eyes which changed between green and blue and grey. His eyes seemed to penetrate the soul. Sherlock was too smart for his own good, therefore making him a tad more immature than his peers. He was a pain to his teachers, always outsmarting them and causing riots in class. Sherlock couldn't see why others couldn't see the totally obvious in, well, everything! He found most of his teachers daft and school dreadfully boring and beneath him.

At home, though, Sherlock was a completely different little boy. His pale complexion came from never going outside. Instead, he spent much of his time playing pirates inside with his beloved bear. Bear was his only friend, and, oh, how Sherlock loved him! The poor thing was so worn out from years of love and time and time again of Mycroft stealing and hiding it. Sherlock went to sleep with his Bear every night, clutched tightly to his chest. Mrs. Holmes many a time had to sew up little Bear because his insides would be falling out after so much rough-and-tumble play around the mansion.

Mycroft and Sherlock often got into violent fights. Mycroft was seven years Sherlock's senior, so of course he had the upper hand. Mycroft knew it was immature of him to victimise his brother, but it was just too easy not to pass up! Whenever Mycroft's friends came round, though, Sherlock went on ignored.

Friends.

Sometimes Sherlock felt so lonely. No, all the time. He had Mummy and he had Bear. But Mummy was busy so often that Sherlock kept to his bedroom, clutching Bear tight to his chest, fighting back tears because pirates don't cry! All Sherlock wanted was friends, someone to care about him, to tolerate him, to come and play and be a pirate with him. Bear's head was soaked it Sherlock's tears because he often could not hold them back for very long.

Sherlock stared out his window to the garden. He wondered what it felt like to be well-liked, to be wanted, to be the subject of affection. Why was it so hard for others to like him? No...why was it so hard to be likeable? Sherlock often ended up blaming himself for his lack of friends, sending him into a fit of tears which further soaked Bear and ended in fitful sleep. 


	2. Chapter 1

Sometimes Mycroft would relent, and create maps for Sherlock. So here we find the little pirate, hat nested atop his wild, dark curls and his bear in tow, trampling around the garden. The pirate's older brother sat on the porch and watched, shouting "Hot!" or "Cold!" in a very bored voice. This time, it was "Not through the azaleas, Sherlock! Good grief, have you no respect for anything? I'm telling Mummy!"  
>Sherlock looked at the azaleas he was standing in. They looked just fine to him! "But! My! I didn't-"<p>But it was too late. Mycroft had already gone inside. Sherlock huffed and flopped to the ground. He looked at Bear.<p>

"Oh Bear," he said. "I do not think I will ever understand him. I understand many things, but I do not understand him."  
>Just then, a big moving van barreled down the road. This piqued Sherlock's curiosity. Hardly anyone moved into this neighbourhood! Sherlock took off running after the van, hat flying off his head, but Bear still tightly in his grip. Curiosity always got the better of Sherlock.<p>

Sherlock found that the van stopped at the smallest house on the street. He wondered who would ever want to live in such a tiny place! A little car pulled into the driveway behind the van. The car stopped, and, from it, emerged a man, a woman, and a little boy. Sherlock could tell by the way that they dressed that they were normal middle-class people of sensible taste. The boy looked about his age. He was the same height as Sherlock, but he was slightly tan and had neat brown hair.

Before he could be noticed, Sherlock hid behind a tree, and spied on the family. Inside the van was sensible furniture. Normal family, normal income, normal everything. Sherlock stayed there for a while, silently watching the moving men go in and out of the house, and the woman, presumably the mother, give orders, and the man, presumably the husband and father, give alternate orders, and the little boy following around, trying to help. Sherlock didn't see why the boy tried to help; he was so small and so insignificant. Sherlock shuffled a little. Suddenly, the boy turned around and looked straight at him.

"Hey you!" the boy shouted. Sherlock's heart stopped beating for a split second. "Hey I see you over there!"

Sherlock turned to run, but the boy continued shouting. "Hey! No! Don't go!" The boy ran to Sherlock, who shyly hid behind the tree.

"Why are you hiding?" the boy asked. "I'm not scary or big and mean."

"People don't much like me," Sherlock replied softly. He peeked around the trunk.

"You have a teddy?" the boy asked. "Aren't you a little old for that?"

Sherlock blushed madly. "I- he's my only friend," he mumbled.

The boy frowned. "You're weird."

"I know."

"My name is Gregory Lestrade. What's yours?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied softly.

"Why were you watching us, Sherlock? That's a funny name, by the way."

"W-well, not many people ever move in down here. Most of the families have been living here for a very long time. There are a lot of old people in this neighbourhood."

"Old people are weird too!" said Gregory. "But I don't mind when people are weird. At least they aren't boring. Our new house is the smallest one on this street, but it's a lot bigger than our old one. How old are you?"

"Seven and a half. You don't mind weird people?"

"Nope. I think they're pretty cool, and they have funny stories to tell."

"I'm so weird that people don't like me," Sherlock said, hiding his face behind the trunk again.

"You can't be that bad!" Gregory retorted.

"I'm so bad and so weird that I don't have any friends. I think it's because I'm so much smarter than them."

"Well, I'll be your friend!" piped up Gregory. "Come meet Mum and Dad!"

Sherlock nodded, a little confused, and followed Gregory inside the house, which was much smaller than the old Holmes mansion. So much smaller that it even lacked an entire floor! They first met Gregory's mother, who was nice-looking, although not as pretty as Sherlock's own mother, but he didn't say anything.

"Mum, this is Sherlock! He's seven just like me!" Gregory practically shouted, his voice carrying through the half-empty home.

She shushed him, and turned to Sherlock. "Hello there, Sherlock! My name is Mrs. Lestrade! That is a pretty teddy. What is his name?"

Sherlock was pleased that she could tell that Bear was a boy. "I call him Bear, ma'am," he said softly.

"Well! Nice and simple, then. You must be a simple boy then."

Sherlock smiled and didn't say anything.

"Your eyes are the prettiest green!" she added.

Sherlock smiled and thanked her. Then Gregory took him to meet his father.

"DAD, DAD, DAD, HEY DAD. COME MEET SHERLOCK!" Gregory hollered across the house.

"Another imaginary friend, Greg?" a man's voice yelled back.

"PRETTY SURE HE'S REAL, DAD."

Greg found his father. Greg looked a lot like him. "Hey squirt!" Mr. Lestrade greeted his son. "You must be Sherlock!" he added, turning to one and the same.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes sir. Sherock Holmes, age seven and a half."

Mr. Lestrade chuckled. "Well hello, Sherlock Holmes. Do you live down the street?"

"Yessir."

"Well, feel free to stop on by any time you want!"

Sherlock felt very excited. Without saying good-bye, he took off running for home, Bear tight in his hand. He reached home, snatched up his pirate hat, and stormed inside the mansion, yelling, "Mummy! Mummy! Guess what! Guess what!"

Mrs. Holmes shouted back from somewhere, "Sorry, dear, I am very busy right now! Maybe later."

So Sherlock took off up a flight of stairs to his bedroom, sat on his bed, pirate hat perched atop his wild curls, and talked excitedly to Bear about having another friend, a real friend. This was the best day of Sherlock's life! 


	3. Chapter 2

(A/N: Wow, you lot! I am impressed by the hits I've gotten. Thanks for all your sweet reviews and story watches and just everything! I can't promise regular updates, because I'm in school. I'll do the best I can though. I've been working on this other fiction, which has a slightly older self-insert and is mildly TFF-inspired. Well, "mildly" isn't quite it. "Heavily" is more like it! But, like I said, I'll do the best I can with this one! Thanks for everything, ya'll!)

Sherlock was in the middle of a conversation with Bear when Ms. Claire, the maid, called him for dinner. Excellent! A perfect time to talk to Mummy! Sherlock dropped Bear and raced halfway down the stairs, tumbling down the rest. His bottom hit the floor, and it hurt, but he didn't care. He raced to the dining room to see Mycroft already seated, and Ms. Claire scolding Mummy for not wearing proper clothing. Mrs. Holmes was a scientist and inventor. She was wearing old jeans and a stained t-shirt, and her hair was pulled back into a messy bun. Her goggles were still on her head, as she often forgot about them.

"Margaret, where's Andrew?" Ms. Claire asked Mummy, referring to Father.

"Oh, still at work," Mummy said breezily. Andrew Holmes was a top-notch successful lawyer who was often away from home. He was a tall, imposing man but with kind brown eyes. "Now let's eat!"

Margaret Holmes was an accomplished scientist-turned-inventor. She was of average height for a woman, and was slim with soft curves. She has curly copper hair and bright green eyes, and a big, kind smile.

"Now, Sherlock...what was it you wanted to tell me earlier? Mycroft, slow down. You are not a horse, do you want to be fat?" Mummy often strung her sentences together. Mycroft grunted.

Sherlock bounced in his chair. "Mummy, guess what? I made a friend today! I made a friend!"

Mrs. Holmes raised her eyebrows. She looked genuinely impressed. "Really, Sherlock? And how is that?"

"Welllllllll...a family moved in down the street and I met them and there's kid and his name is Gregory Lestrade and he's seven too and he likes weird people and old people and his parents are really nice and-"

Mrs. Holmes laughed. "Slow down there, Sherlock! Eat your dinner."

Sherlock grimaced and played with his peas. He didn't really like eating, it was a waste of time to him.

"Mycroft, slow down, I told you!" Mrs. Holmes scolded.

Mycroft dropped his fork on his plate, resulting in a loud "clank." "Mummy, what about the azaleas?" he whined.

"Oh, right. Sherlock, please do try and keep out of the azaleas."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, Mummy. May I be excused?"

Mrs. Holmes looked at her younger son's full plate, and rolled her eyes. "Fine, Sherlock, if you must really leave us."

Sherlock hopped off his chair, gave his mother a kiss on the cheek. She smelled of lavendar, like always, despite spending so much time in her lab. Little Sherlock raced up to his bedroom. He grabbed Bear, and raced up the next flight of stairs, to the library. He padded to his favourite nook, curled up in his favourite chair, and pulled out "The House at Pooh Corner," by A. A. Milne. Sometimes Sherlock felt like Christopher Robin, with stuffed animals as friends. Of course, Sherlock only had Bear but Bear was his best friend and Winnie-the-Pooh was Christopher Robin's, so they were just like, right?

Sherlock didn't really enjoy reading fictional works, but Winnie-the-Pooh was an exception. He often took solace in the make-believe world of the Hundred Acre Wood. Everything was so simple and every problem had a solution. Sometimes that just felt better than reading about science. Sherlock wasn't a very good or quick reader yet, but he tried his hardest. He had read this book so many times, and Mummy had read from it so many times before that, and the book was very very old, so it was falling apart. He read to Bear for a little while, then read in silence, and eventually dozed off in the chair.

A little while later, Sherlock awoke to the sound of his father softly saying his name in his soothing deep voice. Sherlock opened his eyes groggily. "Father?"

Mr. Holmes set his briefcase on his desk. "Good evening, Sherlock. What is tonight's reading?"

"Chemistry, Father," Sherlock lied quickly.

Mr. Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Really, son? Has Mr. Milne made some posthumous additions?"

Sherlock blushed. "I made a friend today, Father. Hisname is Gregory Lestrade and he is seven, just like me!"

Mr. Holmes smiled. "That's what your mum told me. Been kind of a long day, hasn't it?" Sherlock's father looked weary himself.

Sherlock nodded, and- he couldn't help it- yawned.

Mr. Holmes laughed a little, and said, "Alright, son, off to bed it is. I might actually do the same thing myself here soon!"

Sherlock nodded again, and, Bear in hand, took off for the stairs, nearly taking another tumble. He quickly brushed his little teeth, changed into his favourite pyjamas, and scrambled into bed, Bear clutched close to his chest. He laid in bed awake for a while, watching the shadows cast by the moonlight. He could not sleep, for his little mind was all aflutter with the thoughts of finally having a real, human friend!

(A/N: Little Sherlock is probably my favourite character to write for, ever. The one I have imagined in my head is so freaking cute oh my goodness I may have to create some art for it. Thanks for reading!) 


	4. Chapter 3

(A/N: Hello, all! First of all, I would like to thank everyone for the reads, reviews, and tracks! I sincerely appreciate everything! It feels good to actually have readers! Once again, though, I can't promise regular updates. I AM, after all, a senior in high school and in the top band AND co-president of my youth group. I'm trying though! This might be my favourite story I've ever worked on. I wanted to get in a chapter tonight before getting to bed; I planned on taking some NyQuil because I've been sick...my body thinks it's already spring, thanks to the weather! You might have noticed how simple the language has been. I want the language to reflect Sherlock's age. So, eventually, I will be pulling more impressive words out of my expansive vocabulary! ;)  
>Thanks again for reading!)<p>Sherlock awoke the next morning with the sunrise. Light was pouring in from between the curtains. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, wondering what he was going to do that day. Then he remembered he had made a friend the previous day. A real-life friend! He decided he was going to visit the Lestrade family and maybe help them unpack, and things. Sherlock stroked Bear's head. One of Bear's ears was starting to fall off again.<p>

Just then, Sherlock's bedroom door opened, and in hurtled his brother, who then jumped on the bed on top of him, tackling the younger, much smaller boy. Mycroft was very heavy! He muffled Sherlock's screams. Sherlock tried to hit him and fight him off, but it was to no avail.

"My! Myyyyy! Gerroff me! Gerroff!" Sherlock cried.

"It's time to get up, little brother!" Mycroft practically shouted. He was nearly suffocating Sherlock! "Auntie Adela and Madeline are coming to visit today!"

"I can't get up when you're crushing me!" the little one cried.

Mycroft got off and ruffled Sherlock's already messy locks. "You know I love you, little brother," he said with a chuckle.

"Yeah, right," Sherlock grumbled, pushing Mycroft away. "Get out."

So Mycroft strolled out of the room casually, whistling a peppy old tune they had once heard on the classical station on the radio.

Well, Sherlock thought, there goes my day. But he wasn't particularly concerned. Madeline was his favourite cousin. She was sixteen and was the prettiest girl in the entire world, as far as he was concerned. Well, after Mummy, that is. Madeline had pretty red hair just like his Mummy. Auntie Adela was okay too. She gave very tight hugs and her bosoms smothered his face. She smelled like vanilla and roses.

Sherlock hopped out of bed and dressed, although very slowly. Some normal, every-day tasks were very boring to him, like eating, dressing, and sleeping. He sat back on the messy bed and talked to Bear.

"Oh Bear, I haven't seen Madeline and Auntie Adele in a while. I was starting to miss them." He patted Bear on the head. "I was looking forward to going to Greg's today though. Isn't his family nice? His mum is pretty too, although not as pretty as mine." Sherlock figured pretty women were good women.

Instead of eating breakfast, then. he figured he would be good and practise his violin. He didn't particularly care for it, but it kept Mummy happy, and he didn't like it when Mummy was unhappy. He had screeched through a few exercises when Ms. Claire called his name. Auntie Adela and Madeline were here! Sherlock raced downstairs, nearly taking a tumble, and rushed into his relatives' legs.

"HELLO, AUNTIE ADELA! HELLO, MADELINE!" Sherlock called, looking up at them. His aunt hugged him briefly. He then grabbed his cousin's knees. She simply patted his curly locks.

"Someone forgot to brush their hair this morning, Curly Sherly."

Sherlock beamed, then took his cousin by the hand and led her in the next room. He looked at her good and hard. She looked thinner than normal, her skin was paler than normal too, and some of the colour in her eyes had faded. She looked very very sick. He frowned. "Maddy, what is wrong? You look sick."

Madeline sighed, and knelt down beside her little cousin. "Sherlock, I have some advice for you. Don't ever fall in love."

Sherlock wrinked his nose. Fall in love? Him? No way! Girls were so boring, and love didn't make any sense to him. Pus he didn't understand what that had to do with-

"Madeline!" called Mrs. Holmes. "Please come here. I do believe we need to talk. Oh, and Sherlock," she added, "go on ahead to Gregory's house."

Sherlock knew that tone in his mother's voice, and he knew she meant business. So he kissed Madeline on the cheek, hugged her tight, and flew out the front door and down the street to his friend's house.

When Sherlock arrived, he knocked frantically on the front door. Mrs. Lestrade answered.

"Well hello, Sherlock!" she greeted warmly. "I wouldn't expect you to be up this early!"

Sherlock frowned. "It isn't that early. Not to me, anyway," he explained.

"Well...you can come in, I suppose. Greg just got up, though."

"Do you need any help unpacking?" Sherlock offered.

Mrs. Lestrade laughed a pretty laugh. "You know, sweetheart, that would actually be a great help!"

And so in went Sherlock, and he helped his new friend's parents unpack books and put them in bookcases. Sherlock put books on the lower shelves, of course. They determined that was his division. Sherlock took note of what types of books they had. Many of them had dragons on the front of them. Fairy tales?

"Sherlock," Mr. Lestrade said. "Why do you have so many bruises?"

Sherlock looked down at himself. He was wearing shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, as it was a warm day. He analysed his legs and arms. "I guess I do have a lot, huh? My brother is kind of rough sometimes. He's kind of mean."

"How old is your brother?"

"Mycroft is fourteen. He tackled me in my bed this morning. He crushed me. He's mean a lot, but sometimes he makes me treasure maps."

"What's goin' on in here?" another voice chimed in loudly. It was Greg. He was dressed but still looked and sounded very sleepy. "Oh, hey Sherlock! What'cha doin' here?"

"Helping your parents!" Sherlock chirupped.

"Yeah, Greg!" Mr. Lestrade said. "You ought to help us too!"

Greg grumbled but picked up a few books and stood beside Sherlock. "Hey, Sherlock. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"A pirate captain," Sherlock replied simply.

"That's so awesome! I wanna be a policeman, or a pilot." Greg talked a lot, and very loudly. Sherlock didn't mind though. At least someone would actually talk to him. He couldn't help but to smile while talking with Greg. It also helped him keep his mind off worrying about his cousin. He had never seen her so sad before, and that made him feel sad too. But he soon got lost in banter with Greg, his interesting, talkative, normal, real friend.


	5. Chapter 4

The rest of the summer holiday passed with Sherlock spending more and more time with the Lestrades and Bear staying on his bed. Spending time with them meant Sherlock was introduced to many new things, and began to experience a glourious overload. New books, new movies, new television shows, new foods, new music. It was a wonderful time in his life, and he was filled with questions. He had to know everything.

"What instrument is that? Why is it called that? Why does it sound like that?" "Why do they like spicy foods?" "How do they think that is fun?" "Why is she so fat?" "Why does she wear a lot of makeup?" "How do you play that instrument?"

You name it, Sherlock had a question about it. And he locked all his newfound information away in his brain. He had to know about everything! After having a question answered, he usually just stayed silent while processing the new-found information. He found himself to be more and more observant. When Mycroft made a new treasure map, Sherlock simply looked at Mycroft's clothes to figure out where he had been: whether there were a certain type of flower petals on his shoulder, a certain type of dirt on his shoes, any dust on his fingers. Anything was useful. And Mycroft found this increasingly irritating.

When school started again, Sherlock was overjoyed to find that Greg was in his classes. And when the other kids found out that the decent new kid was friends with the weirdo, all hell broke loose. They tried to seperate the two, but fortunately, it never worked. Many of the shouts on the schoolyard were something akin to "Why are you hanging around with that weirdo?" or "You're going to catch the weird!" Greg was exceptional at ignoring them though.

What Greg wasn't exceptional at, though, was school. He was sort of lazy and didn't participate much. While Sherlock succeeded in science-y things, Greg succeeded in rugby, and that was about it. "School and stuff really isn;t my thing," he would say. They stayed great friends though, as different as they were.

Sherlock's new voracious curiosity meant that he would get into absolutely everything, left a mess everywhere, asked too many questions, and got on anyone's and everyone's nerves...even more then before. He developed sort of this careless attitude towards everyone and became kind of an annoying brat. Bear eventually made his was up to a shelf, staying there and collecting dust. Sherlock felt as if he was getting too old for such childish things. That meant that he no longer had an interest in being a pirate. His hat was eventually lost somewhere in all the disarray in his bedroom.

By the time Greg and Sherlock had reached secondary, Sherlock had more than caught up with Greg in height, and now towered over almost everyone. He was lanky, but still had the same messy dark curls. It was almost impossible to get his hair cut and tamed. He was pompous, to say the least, which annoyed Greg endlessly. Sherlock did not understand the social repercussions of being a dick.

What was really surprising was the way Sherlock's female classmates found him attractive. Fifteen-year-old Sherlock had absolutely no interest in them whatsoever, which Greg found unbelieveable. One late morning they were rushing down the crowded hall to class, Greg struggling to keep up with Sherlock's long strides, when Greg had to go and bring it up again.

"Chrissakes, Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you? If I had girls all over me like the way you do, I would defo take advantage of it. Sometimes I just don't understand you, mate," Greg complained, his voice dripping with jealousy.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What I don't understand is why it is so important to you that you have to mention it so often. Girls are of no concern to me. Not much of anyone is of much concern to me," he said with as much disdain as he could muster. Greg really did annoy him at times.

"The way you drag Molly around like that, though, it's so unfair!" Greg protested, speaking of their slightly mousy female classmate, whom Greg obviously fancied.

"If Molly has not already figured out that I am not interested, then she is really not worth my time, Greg. You can be so daft at times. I wonder why I even still tolerate you."

Sherlock could practically feel Greg roll his eyes (Greg was still lagging behind). Greg was used to this sort of abuse, so why should Sherlock change? He didn't need to change for anybody.

"I wonder why all those girls even like you," Greg shot back.

Sherlock groaned. "Really, Lestrade? Really? I wish you would stop that shit. It is getting very old. Now hurry up and let's get to class."

The rugby player grumbled something and followed the tall, arsehole budding scientist.

(A/N: Thanks for reading! I really wanted to hurry up and end Little!Lock so I could start Teen!Lock. I've been very excited for Teen!Lock, although I am truly going to miss the young'in. I am probably going to spend longer with Teen!Lock than I did with Little!Lock...and then we go to uni! This was probably poorly written, but I've been in sort of a sick haze for the past week or so. It's the weather, man. By the way, I was accepted into the University of Alabama school of music, so I get to major in music therapy this autumn! My state doesn't have a music therapy programme, and it's seriously what I want to do. I am so excited!  
>Thanks again for reading!) <p>


	6. Chapter 5

Sherlock had decided that he was going to study something like chemistry at university. It was easy enough for him, and deciding a couple years in advance led to less hassle at a later time. At fifteen, he already knew much of what was to know, but he was required to take the course at school that year.

So there he sat. Well, "slouched" is more like it. He already knew the material, of course, so he spied the rest of the classroom. He knew most of his classmates, who all sat there confusedly, eyes glazed over. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Greg was in a different class that hour. A little disappointing. He would have contributed an entertaining commentary on the lecture.

Sherlock laid eyes on someone. Someone new. Someone unfamiliar. Someone...different. This someone stuck out like a sore thumb because he was diligently taking notes on the lecture, in which he was fully absorbed. He actually seemed interested, or at least desperate for good marks. Sherlock deduced it was the former, judging from the way he seemed so focused.

The boy, although seated, looked shorter and stockier than Sherlock himself, even shorter than Greg, possibly. He had very neat golden hair, impossibly neat, and his irises were deep blue. He pursed his lips as he concentrated. Sherlock could tell his handwriting was messy, like that of a doctor's. Sherlock smirked. He could see this boy being a doctor fifteen years from now. The boy licked his lips and drummed his fingers on the table. The boy caught Sherlock's gaze, when Sherlock realised he was gazing. Always the master of deceit, Sherlock quickly looked away and pretended as if he was looking around the room.

Sherlock set his gaze at the desk and tapped his slender fingers on his lips. He couldn't tell what economic or social class the boy was in because of the obligatory uniform. Hmmm. His hair was combed very neatly, so that meant a strict household, or very high standards for himself. Sherlock couldn't decide which, although he leaned toward the latter, because a strict household probably would have instilled neater handwriting.

Sherlock steepled his fingers underneath his chin.

Assuming the boy was to become a doctor, why? Maybe he felt indebted. Maybe (Sherlock internally snorted) he was very kind. Maybe he was being forced to by his parent(s) or guardian(s).

Sherlock had to learn more. He despised not knowing.

After class, while the boy gathered his things, Sherlock approached him.

"I've never seen you before," Sherlock said abruptly.

The boy looked up. "Hello to you, too," he said sarcastically.

"Oh, right, hello. Anyway, I've never seen you here before."

"So you've seen absolutely everyone else at this school, then?"

"At some point in time, yes. I have."

The boy pursed his lips. "Foiled," his face seemed to say. "Well, things happen," he said shortly, continuing with his things.

"What is your name?" Sherlock asked, still abrupt.

The boy looked up once again. "John. John Watson. Yours, then?"

"Holmes."

"Is that all? No first name?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Like first names are important, or something."

John Watson stared expectantly.

Sherlock scoffed. "My first name happens to be Sherlock."

John stuck out is hand. "Nice to meet you, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook John's hand briefly, then asked. "Are you, by chance, planning on becoming a doctor eventually?"

John looked absolutely bewildered. "I- uh- what- h- what? How do you know?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Simple observations. You paid more attention than anyone else in the class; the way you took notes meant either genuine interest or desperation; and your handwriting is unconventially messy, like that of a doctor's." He smirked.

John Watson stared. "You're brilliant, you. Do you find the class boring, then? Is that why you were trying to figure out my life?"

Sherlock laughed shortly. "I know everything there is to know. Did you know you're rather short?"

John glared as he placed his things in his knapsack. "Did you know that's kind of an arse thing to say?"

"I get that a lot."

"Don't you think that it may mean something?"

"I really don't care."

"Don't your friends, though? I'll bet they get awfully annoyed."

"I've got just the one, and he doesn't seem to mind. I have known him for the proper amount of time."

"Well," John practically interrupted, "it was nice meeting you, Sherlock, but I'm afraid I have to get to my next class." He slung his knapsack over his shoulder, nodded once, and left the room.

Sherlock reflected. His new classmate was shrouded in mystery. Normally it didn't take very long to figure people out. But John Watson, the potential doctor, the little blonde, the new student... Sherlock just didn't know. But he had to. He had to find out more. The mystery intrigued him. He had to know John Watson.

(A/N: Hey, you lot! Sorry it took me so long to update. I have seriously been incredibly busy, but this week is spring break! Ya'll should be excited! ;p I thought this chapter would be an easy one, but it took a lot longer than expected. Hope ya'll liked it!  
>As always, thanks for reading!)<br> 


	7. Chapter 6

(A/N: Christ. This sucks. I am so, so, so, so sorry.)

Sherlock normally obsessed over experiments and figuring out mysteries. He didn't bother with people, save for Greg and Mummy. But the enigma that was John Watson compelled him to obsess.

Sherlock always heard the names, the mean words, the vicious taunts. He wondered why people, just mere children, filled themselves with such animosity, why they would waste precious time on having any sort of feelings towards another person.

But this John. He had to know him. The lack of knowledge about him was killing him, although not literally, because that's just plain silly.

So Sherlock followed him, and asked him things.

John Watson was very straight-to-the-point in his answers, and also very blunt when he became annoyed.

Sherlock found out that John lived with his mum and his older sibling, Harry. It had to be clarified that Harry was short for Harriet and that Harry was a lesbian and a right pain in the arse.

He found that John liked to wear ugly but comfortable jumpers. He said they kept him warm. John always wore long sleeves and long trousers. Sherlock deduced that John was not comfortable with his body and had little confidence.

John was shit at things like grammar, but he kept a journal, which he was absolutely dedicated to.

John began to tolerate Sherlock, it seemed. He minded less when Sherlock was around.

However, Greg became disgruntled. He felt left out. "Just shag him already," he began muttering at Sherlock. John found Greg to be sort of whiny. Sometimes John and Sherlock made fun of him to have a laugh.

Sherlock made it to inviting John to his residence. John, being the good, nice boy he was, accepted politely. John was obviously quite impressed by the Holmes residence. He failed miserably at hiding his awe. Sherlock smirked.

"It does look rather big from the outside, doesn't it?"

John nodded.

"Wait until you see the inside," Sherlock murmured. He was very proud of his family's beautiful home. He let John in to the vestibule, where John nearly choked in awe.

"Ms. Claire!" Sherlock called. "We have a guest." The maid appeared quickly and took their coats.

John looked around. "Holy shet...this place is incredible," he said in a hushed tone.

Sherlock ignored him. "My mum is up in her laboratory, and my dad is away at work. So it's just us."

John turned to face his host. "Your mum has a lab?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Mummy's an inventor and scientist, she needs her space."

John shook his head, most likely from disbelief. "Fantastic."

Sherlock led his colleague up to the library, while the shorter boy marveled at his surroundings.

John nearly exploded with wonder at the sight of the library.

"You enjoy books?" Sherlock asked in a murmur.

John blushed. "I- well-"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Do you not? But your reaction..."

John's blush deepened. "It's just that, well, you're rich, and I'm awfully poor..." he practically whispered.

Oh, this again! Sherlock threw up his hands. "Money? Really? It doesn't matter in the whole scheme of things!"

John muttered something that sounded like "Easy for you to say, smug arse bastard." Sherlock dismissed it.

They stood there a while in silence, John peering at the endless volumes lining vast book cases. Sherlock, on the other hand, observed John. Little John, with the bags under his eyes and his dry, cracked lips. He looked so tired, so worn, at just sixteen. Sherlock deduced that John did a lot of caring for his mother. Something tragic must have happened with John's father. Finally, John took a breath, and spoke, while still scanning the books.

"Have...you ever had a girlfriend?" John asked quietly, slightly distracted. He set his eyes on a certain book. "Do you mind if I...?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, go on ahead."

John gleefully picked out the book. It was a very large tome on anatomy. He opened it to a random page and flipped through. "Anyway, my question..."

"When did you start asking me questions?"

John looked up at Sherlock. "Well, I figured it was only fair. Sorry if it offends you, but, y'know..."

"The answer is no."

"Well, why not?" John asked, looking back down at the book in his hands. "No girl good enough? Waiting for the right one?"

"Not interested."

"Oh, um, so do you- You like blokes?"

"People in general do not interest me," Sherlock answered simply. "I like science and mysteries."

John looked back up, his brow furrowed. "But I'm a person, and you seem fairly interested."

"Because, John Watson, you are a mystery."

The blonde smirked. "Brilliant bloke like you should be able to figure me out in no time," he said, a tinge of sadness colouring his tone. Sherlock was thrilled. Secrets! They must be uncovered!

"Boys! Dinner is ready!" they heard Ms. Claire call.

"Oh, uh...I guess I'd better get going then," John said awkwardly.

"No, no, you can stay," Sherlock reassured his collegue...friend?

John swallowed. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course, of course. You can meet Mummy!"

"So, John, what interests you?" Mummy asked at dinner.

"I'd like to be a doctor one day," John answered shyly.

"Is that so? Any particular type of doctor, then?"

"I think I'd like to be a surgeon."

"And why's that?"

John's eyes widened. His expression seemed to say "Why do these people ask so many questions?" Sherlock smirked. John answered, "I like to help people."

Mummy smiled warmly. "I think you'll make a great surgeon one day. That must mean you study very hard."

John nodded. He still looked very intimidated. Sherlock reminded himself to reassure John about Mummy.

Mummy turned to Sherlock. "So, Sherlock, when were you going to tell me you have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock choked and John spit out whatever he was chewing.

"Oh," Mummy simply said. "Not yet to that stage, are we?"

John coughed harshly. Tears streamed from his eyes.

That was only the beginning.  
> <p>


	8. Chapter 7

(A/N: Wow, this story has surpassed 2000 hits! I'm impressed! Thank you all for reading this! I am so grateful for the reads and the follows and the favourites! It means so much to me that people are actually reading my crap!

If anyone has any ideas or suggestions for things they'd like to see, feel free to message me! I've already appeased a couple of friends, because it seems everyone's ideas are better than my own! ;p

Hope you enjoy this chapter of crap!)

It started out that Sherlock followed John around. However, John, fascinated by Sherlock's deductions, soon became the one trailing Sherlock around. Very convenient, as Sherlock was not finished with John. "Brilliant!" "Fantastic!" or "Amazing!" John would always marvel.

This was strange to Sherlock. Most people told him to piss off. It was awfully nice, though, the change.

John had this scent. Sherlock couldn't quite pinpoint it. It reminded him of home, for some reason, even though Sherlock's own home smelled of leather and books and wood polish. John smelled comforting. Everything about John was comforting. It was almost totally alien to Sherlock. He always knew Greg as blue jeans and t-shirts, rugby and bad jokes, not to mention whining and crap telly. He knew everything there was to know about Greg, and, although they were still friends, Greg became boring.

John was ugly jumpers, ratty shoes, jam, neat hair, and, above all, mystery.

So one day at school, while ignoring the shouts of "Gay!" "Homos!" and "Freak!", Sherlock made a proposition.

"John, you've been to my residence. Why don't I visit yours?"

"Sherlock, that's crazy!" John practically shouted. Well, "spluttered" is more accurate.

"Oh? And how is that?"

John blushed. "Well, er, my home is very small, and uh..."

Sherlock snorted. "Like the size of your home, presumably a flat, is going to deter me? Preposterous. Even you should be able to come up with a better excuse than that, John Watson. Are you really that ashamed of what you have- or what you don't have, might I say?"

"Hold on there, Holmes! "

Sherlock ignored the comment and said, "Oh, come now, John, do you really think it's fair?"

"Ha! Fair? Do you really care about it being fair?"

"But Jaaaawwnn..."

John sighed. "Fine, but please try and be less of an arse to my mum. And no breaking shit. Seriously."

"Hey, you two!" another voice chimed in. Greg. "Having a lovers' spat?"

"Greg, would you please quit that shit? It is getting so old, and frankly-"

Greg held a hand up. "Slow down, John. I was only kidding. So what are our plans lately, hmm?"

"Actually," Sherlock started, "I was planning on visiting John's abode after school today."

"After school today? Sherlock, I never agreed to to-"

Greg cut John off and said, "Oh-ho! Meeting the parents, then? Finally getting to that stage? I thought we'd already reached that one!" Greg raised his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

"Christ, Greg, quit being a twat, and get your dirty nose out of-"

"John, please, calm down," Sherlock said. He noticed John's face was getting quite red. "Temper, temper. We mustn't waste our energy before our chemistry test. Come along now, John. We can't be late. Greg, you should probably get to your class too. Which was it, Care and Feeding of Sharp Wit? I'm sure you'll need it..."

"Whatever," Greg mumbled, and rushed off to class, leaving Sherlock to tug John down the hall by his arm.

"Sherlock, fuck, quit gripping my arm, that kind of hurts, you know."

And Sherlock ignored him.

(..)

Sherlock was breezing through the dull chemistry test (he'd learned this stuff when he was eight) when he felt something pelt his back. And another something. And another. He rolled his eyes and turned around. A sharply folded bit of paper promptly hit him in the nose. And another on his cheek. And another on his forehead. Sally Donovan was the perpetrator. She had a sneer plastered across her face.

"Read them, freak!" she hissed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and gathered all the projectiles. Unphased, he unfolded them, one by one. Written on each one was some sort of an insult in bubbly handwriting.

_Freak._

_Gay._

_Homos._

_Don't forget the condoms!_

_Does your mum know?_

_Didn't think he was your type._

Sherlock snorted and pushed the notes aside. The instructor glared at him. He gave her a big, fake smile. He finished the test and spied on John. John's brow was furrowed as he wrote out what seemed to be a novel. John jumped when a paper projectile hit his mid-back. He looked around, and then huffed. He opened the note, read it, and his eyebrows shot up. He blushed, and then pushed it away. He went back to his paper but Sally kept pelting John with the projectiles. Sherlock merely looked on with amusement. John tried to ignore the projectiles hitting his back, but every time one hit him, he twitched. When John was finished with his test, he read all the notes, his eyebrows raising more and his blush deepening with each one.

After class, John caught up with Sherlock. "The hell was that?"

Sherlock smirked. "Sally Donovan."

"Bitch. She does this often?"

"Afraid so. What did she said to _you_?"

John blushed, yet again. "'Don't catch an STD.' 'Be safe.' 'Are you top or bottom?'" His voice got softer and softer. "'Does your daddy know?'"

Sherlock patted his short friend (_Are we friends now? _Sherlock wondered) on the shoulder briefly and awkwardly. "I find it best to just ignore people like her."

John sighed. "I guess. Not really easy."

"Oh, it gets easier. Now, about your mum. What's her name? I want to say it's something related to nature."

"It's Violet. Look, can we not discuss my mum right now? I need to get to class. Meet me at the quad after the final bell."

Sherlock smiled. "Sure, John. Anything."

(A/N: Oh my god. If you have reached this point, I am sincerely sorry. That was absolutely awful. Again, thanks for tolerating me. And feel free to contact me!)


	9. Chapter 8

(A/N: This is written in John's point of view. Thought a little change would be nice. I wanted to try my hand at it!)

When the final bell rang, John took off running for the commons. He felt awfully nervous, to say the least. _The _Sherlock Holmes, coming to visit. He ought to give his mum a warning. _Mum, this guy's a little crazy, but don't worry. _

Upon reaching the commons, John saw through the masses a very tall, very lanky boy leaning casually up against a wall. Ah, of course. Sherlock had somehow managed to make it there before him.

"Was the run really necessary, John?" Sherlock drawled. He already had a deep voice, but John suspected it would eventually be even deeper.

"Come along, git," John muttered, leading the way. The flat was within moderate walking distance.

Sherlock made John nervous. It wasn't just his imposing figure–tall, lanky, dark hair, and, by God, those _eyes_-but everything about him was intimidating. He had this habit of scoping things out with those crystalline eyes, and he could tell you what you're thinking, where you're from, and what you plan on doing. Of course, his behaviour was unpredictable. So John cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, listen to me."

Sherlock was silent. His strides were long and John had a hard time keeping up.

"Are you listening?"

Sherlock glanced at him. "Go on."

"Okay, mate, you're going to have to be, erm, how shall I put this…not a dick. Mum's kind of sensitive, and…we don't need you wrecking things and all…"

Sherlock chuckled. "Me? Wreck things? Surely there isn't _that _much damning evidence in your home…" He trailed off into a murmur.

John's throat tightened. _Actually… _He thought about sending Sherlock home but he realized they were just a matter of yards away. John heaved a sigh. "Come on, then. Hurry along."

(..)

Mrs. Watson was seated at the desk, working on something. Over the last few months, she had been swamped with letters, bills, and contracts. She spent most nights cramped at the desk, pen going wildly, through the wee hours of morning.

John kissed his mother on the cheek. "Hullo, Mum," he murmured. "I've brought a guest."

Violet Watson turned to face her son and his friend. Her greying blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun. The lines etched on her face were documentation of both past worries and past joys. She was admittedly not as pretty as Mrs. Holmes was, but she was John's own mum and therefore the loveliest woman in the world, as far as he was concerned.

Before Mrs. Watson could take Sherlock in, Sherlock had stuck his hand out. "Sherlock Renatus Holmes, ma'am."

Mrs. Holmes chuckled amiably. "Violet Watson, my dear boy." She shook his hand.

Renatus? Well, then.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Watson. You have a lovely home." Oh, no. It was starting. John could see Sherlock taking in his surroundings, probably processing them to death like he always did. John could only imagine the horrors Sherlock had deduced from the old trinkets on display.

Mrs. Watson looked taken aback. "Well, thank you, Mr. Holmes."

John restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "Here, Sherlock, come take a seat." He led Sherlock into the kitchen where there was a slightly cluttered table. "I'll be right back." He gave Sherlock a look of warning, akin to the stink-eye.

Sherlock's lips curled into a grin. "Do hurry."

John left the smug bastard to his deductions and rejoined his mother. "Hey, Mum, just a warning," John muttered to her. "Sherlock has this…tendency to be very honest. He doesn't really have a filter. I apologise for him in advance." He then returned to the kitchen, preparing himself for impact. "Alright, prick, where are you gonna start?"

"Your father's dead," Sherlock answered simply.

A shiver ran up John's spine. "Indeed. May I ask how you knew?"

"The decoration is rather neutral. A divorced woman would not decorate like that. I assume that he did not die very long ago. A year at most, perhaps. Also, I took a glance at the papers on the desk."

"Sherlock! You're not supposed to look at personal papers like that!" John quickly flew down into a chair and hid his face in his hands.

"He was a military man."

John nodded, too afraid to look up into that smug face. "A great, honourable man. Wonderful father." He choked back tears.

"Car accident."

"Drunk driver," John clarified. He wouldn't tell the story just yet. It could wait.

"I'm…very sorry."

Hold on…did Sherlock just apologise? Sherlock Renatus Holmes?

"I could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a parent," he continued. "My father works a lot, but that doesn't mean I feel any different about him. Many of us stand in our fathers' shadows in awe, only wishing we could be the men they are." He paused. "If that made any sense."

John stopped listening as Sherlock talked about his own father. It had only been about six months. He felt as if the wound in his heart would never heal. He was still in disbelief. His father couldn't be dead. Roger fucking Watson was not supposed to die. He was supposed to live forever, right? The greatest man the world had ever seen. It was all so unfair. Why did he have to leave?...

"John?" His mother's voice. "John, can you help with dinner?" Sherlock was looking at him curiously.

John sighed. "Yes, Mum." He got up and removed his school jacket, which he then threw carelessly over the back of his chair. Lately he did dinner on his own as his mum dealt with the papers and things.

"You cook?" Sherlock asked, seemingly surprised.

John simply grunted, although secretly pleased that he had surprised the otherwise un-surprise-able Sherlock. He absent-mindedly unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up, and proceeded to wash his hands.

"John…" Sherlock said, sounded frustrated. "Your arms…"

John froze. Oh shit. Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no. He quickly pulled his sleeves down.

"John, why? Why would you do that to yourself?" It sounded like he was asking himself.

John stared him down with what was hopefully a stony glare. "We are not discussing this."

(A/N: Worst chapter yet. Oh goodness.)


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